


Champagne Problems

by trixstar



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot stress this enough, Rating May Change, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 07:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30051882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trixstar/pseuds/trixstar
Summary: Can a ring really fix everything?Written for The Sylvgrid Evermore Project
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19
Collections: Sylvgrid Evermore Project





	Champagne Problems

**Author's Note:**

> first off big thanks to my ex [Emi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiwaka29/pseuds/emiwaka29) for betaing this <3 my fellow clown and past other half mayhaps we could be happy in another life *sad honking emoji* thank you so much for doing this and checking in constantly to ensure i was hauling ass you are the real mvp!
> 
> and thanks to the sylvgrid server for being real champs and sharing my love for t swizzle throughout these strenuous times i love y'all and you guys are amazing for hosting this event and bringing so many talented creators together <3 if youre not from there pls do make sure to check out [The Sylvgrid Evermore twitter](https://twitter.com/SylvgridTs) for more updates on this lovely project ehe
> 
> now without further ado, enjoy this hot mess

The ring is a heavy weight in his pocket.

In the metaphorical sense, that is. The ring box itself isn’t really heavy. At least, he doesn’t _think_ it is. Who knows, really? He’s pretty sure he lost the ability to feel his legs some miles past the borders of Adrestia. Every movement’s been a slow, mechanical thing. Even if the ring were to weigh as much as Dimitri, Sylvain doesn’t think he’d feel it at this point. Which is concerning actually. Because that’s a Bad Thing On The Road. 

See, Annette has lists for these things. Because Annette _likes_ lists and Sylvain likes her, so he takes notes of them every once in a while. Bad Things On The Road consists of numb limbs, sleepy eyes, too much water, and a bunch of other things he really doesn’t have the energy to remember. She’d written all the contents on a sheet of pad paper and buckled it into the front seat of his car once she’d found out about his trip. If Felix’s glares weren’t enough, her puppy-dog eyes were what made him leave the thing in the seat. Crumpled and more than a little creased beside him.

At least it’s still in one piece.

The same cannot be said for: (1) the boxes of takeout Edelgard and Hubert had so generously sent him away with three hours prior, (2) a portion of wrapping paper layered around a box of exotic plant seeds Petra had given him to give to Ashe and Dedue four hours prior, (3) some notes he’d taken during his meetings five hours prior, (4) the picture he’s had of him and Ingrid taped to his dashboard for years, (5) his and Ingrid’s relationship _—_

Sylvain pulls over a little while after he realizes he’s crying.

It’s a shitty thing to do, being so emotional that you have to pull over to the side of the road. But he hasn’t seen another car on the highway for a solid hour and that should make it fine, but it really, _really_ doesn’t because there’s something even shittier about stopping in the middle of no-fucking-where with literally zero other people around. No one hears him cry out here. No one hears him curse at everything and finally lose his shit enough to tear Annette’s little list out of the seat Ingrid’s supposed to be sitting on.

He rests his heads on the driver’s wheel. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

The ring is a heavy weight in his hand when he pulls it out.

Ingrid never liked flashy, so it’s a simple band. No big, attention-seeking diamond. Just small ones encrusted on its surface. It hadn’t cost him too much. Mostly because he has money left over from a cancelled romantic getaway they were supposed to go on last month. And money from another one two months before that. And other—

(The first time, a business trip on her end. The second, one on his. The third, it didn’t seem like the right time. Fourth is the same thing. Fifth: it’s never the _right fucking season anymore—_ )

Sylvain takes a steadying breath.

 _Woah, there,_ he thinks. Because losing his shit only about a fifth of the way back to Faerghus isn't exactly ideal. In fact, losing his shit _at all_ isn't ideal, so he takes a few more breaths, clenches his fists, and tries not to look at the photo of him and Ingrid on the dashboard.

A beat. He turns the radio on and _ha_ . White Horse. Ingrid liked — _still likes_ his song. He and Ingrid like Taylor Swift. It's one of the only things that hasn't changed despite it all. Praise the lord for Taylor Allison Swift.

She, at least, persists.

Sylvain wipes away his tears and starts the car back up as the last notes of White Horse fade. 

"Praise the lord for Taylor Allison Swift," he says aloud, laughing a little. The first time he speaks in three hours and it's a broken declaration spoken pathetically, defeatedly.

He continues driving. He continues falling apart. 

* * *

She’s porcelain skin and wide, green eyes when they first meet.

Well, it’s not actually their first meeting, just the first one they can remember. Their real first meeting takes place when he’s three and she’s one—babbling little babies brought together by old friends. It shouldn’t count, he thinks.

Because she'd been pretty even then and he just hadn't known it. An injustice.

He corrects this later on during their first proper meeting (deemed so because it's the earliest one they can both remember.) He's seven, and she's five, and he stops her mid-rant about how pegasi are the best mythical creatures ever to exist, to tell her he thinks she's beautiful.

"What?" She cocks her head. The buzz of the party going behind them is lost. Even sounds of Dimitri and Felix's play fighting are but a distant hum. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am!" he responds, grinning. Because even then he'd been taught how to smile, but it’s a little more genuine when it’s her. "You're really pretty, Ingrid."

She reddens slightly, clearly surprised. Sylvain thinks it's cute. Years later, he will still find it adorable.

"I'm not pretty,” Ingrid insists, “My mom is. Yours too! But not me."

He shakes his head, adamant. "I disagree."

"Disagree?" The syllables are butchered on her tongue. At this age, he’s smarter than her, reading the thicker books with the bigger words and winning medal after medal. “What does that mean?”

“It means I still find you pretty.” He cocks his head in that endearing way his mom says he does. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word yet, but it makes his mother smile. “The prettiest girl in the room.”

Ingrid’s expression slowly morphs into a scowl. He doesn’t notice. (His first mistake.) 

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

“You _are_ ,” he singsongs, oblivious.

“Stop it.” It comes out a little shaky, but he doesn’t notice that either. _He’s so stupid_.

“But you ar-”

The punch surprises him. _Of course_ it does. 

He remembers clutching at his face, dazed. Their parents scurrying over, clearly alarmed. Dimitri and Felix gaping at them, confused and probably more than a little surprised. Ingrid is crying now and Sylvain doesn’t understand it. (There are so many things he still won’t be able to in the future.)

He hadn’t been lying. He _did_ think Ingrid was the prettiest girl in the room. She’s the only one with hair as bright as the sun and eyes Sylvain gets lost in. Hands that fit perfectly into his and a smile that makes him think he can do anything. Ingrid is beautiful. Even as a child, he knows this. 

(But as a child he doesn’t know the truth isn’t always the answer. Seven and he thinks lies are unacceptable, wishes his parents could do everything but.) 

Later, he will find out that Glenn had told her “pretty” meant the damsel in distress, that Ingrid doesn’t want to be one, nor has she ever wanted to. Sylvain will find out later never to call her “pretty” to her face if he wants to keep his in one piece, never even imply that she is weak in any sort of way.

This makes the whole thing funny, in his humble opinion. He still laughs about it every once in a while.

Because he’d fallen in love then and he just hadn’t known it. 

~~(His second mistake.)~~

* * *

Sylvain finally runs low on gas in the fifth hour.

Luckily, he’s by a gas station when his car comes to a slow, agonizing halt, so it only takes a few minutes of pushing it under the heat of the Adrestian sun to get it to a pump. He plasters on a shining smile and nods at the handful of attendants that had oh so kindly just watched him struggle. No use being pissy about it, Sylvain supposes. He doesn't think they're paid enough to deal with that kind of shit anyway. He can respect that

He has an attendant fill his car up before walking over to the convenience store. A smoke wouldn’t hurt. Ingrid would never know. She doesn't know a lot about him these days. It's a blessing and a curse.

He pays for his cigarettes and smokes one a considerable distance away from the station, nearer to the outhouse in the middle of nowhere and _seriously_. He gets being a shitty gas station, but he draws the line at a literal wooden shithole being the only functional bathroom for miles. It’s a bitch to walk towards too, a good distance away from the pumps for safety purposes probably, but it’s still annoying.

But beggars can’t be choosers.

Usually he likes to watch the smoke dissipate into the sky after a drag, but the sun is too bright to even think about looking up. He settles for kicking the pebbles at his feet and idly watching his car from afar.

A gray Subaru. Ingrid has a blue one. Matching cars is a very obnoxious thing for a couple to have, but they had enough money for it as teens, back when they were young and stupid. Plus, his arrogance outweighed any doubt or shyness she may have had about owning the vehicles. He knows one of them was meaning to buy another model eventually, but neither ever got around to it. Intentionally or not, Sylvain doesn’t really want to think about it anymore.

So. Matching Subarus. How romantic.

His is more… beaten up. Too many drunken adventures that almost always involve a heavy-handed Dimitri and a violent Felix. He’d had two or three windshield replacements back when he and Dorothea broke up. A broken side mirror from a Dimitri breakdown and a busted headlight. 

Not all of them are bad memories though. He still remembers Mercedes denting his car on a dare. Ashe accidentally dropping a lasagna in the trunk because of some marbles left over by the children playing on the street, Hilda spilling perfume all over his seats while trying to doll up Annette in a rush job. It’s not a perfect car anymore. Sylvain doesn’t think it ever was, but it’s a car of memories and maybe that’s why he doesn’t ever think to replace it.

Ingrid’s is in much better shape. She goes through a car wash every week, organizes everything at least once a day. She’s neat like that. Sylvain has always liked it about her. He is the hot mess and she is the janitor assigned to clean him up, maybe even fix him. (Hopefully.)

Maybe that’s where he’d gone wrong, thinking she could fix him when they were both broken in ways they couldn’t even understand sometimes. 

But, again, his arrogance had a way of blinding him to things.

Maybe that’s why he thought — _still thinks_ they can last. Why he goes through this long, long road thinking they’re happy as can be until it all comes crashing down with a single text he just so happens to see on her phone one night left haphazardly on the nightstand after quick, unpassionate sex. 

_To: Felix_

_I’m thinking about selling the car._

_From: Ingrid_

He’d felt cold then, reading the words, like he couldn’t breathe. Because arrogance isn’t complete ignorance and despite looking away from it for so long, he still somehow knows what the text really means.

Ingrid’s car has the better memories, the _best ones_. It’s where they kissed for the first time, where they talked about moving in together. It’s where he found her after she’d ran from her father’s wake, and where she curled up to wait for him to finish working, when she was still adrift. The car is special. The car means something.

And she’s giving it away.

He laughs into the desert air, but there is no mirth in it. That was the first sign. He’d known it. She probably had too. But he’d ignored it.

He should’ve seen the cars for what they were rather than the memories they had. Sylvain’s is a mess. Ingrid’s isn’t. It was always that simple.

It would’ve saved them from some of the pain.

He throws the cigarette on the dirt and stomps on it. He takes a deep breath. He walks back to his car, a sweaty, dysfunctional mess in a too-tight suit before paying for the gas and driving off.

Taylor Swift is on the radio again. She’s singing Getaway Car. He thinks this is appropriate.

* * *

_“The same car…. You’re serious?”_

_“Why not?”_

_“It’ll piss both our parents off.”_

_“Please, you’re the favorite daughter and I’m not Miklan. It’ll hardly be a problem-”_

_“It’s cheesy.”_

_“You think our future kids will care?”_

_“You’re already thinking about kids, huh?”_

_“Is that bad? I promise it’s not just about getting into your cowboy pants.”_

_“Don’t call them cowboy pants!”_

_“They have tassels, Ing.”_

_“They have deep pockets!”_

_“Whatever makes you happy, babe.”_

_“You’re an idiot.”_

_“Your idiot. I love you.”_

_“I love you too.”_

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments appreciated :D 
> 
> and pee pee poo poo follow me on twitter hekhok: [@trixstarsss](https://twitter.com/trixstarsss)


End file.
